The version of myself that walked into the hospital and the version of myself that walked out of the hospital on the day that you died are two entirely different people.
The former mourns for the life that you lived and for the one that you didn’t.
She’s afraid to heal because what if that means forgetting? The memories of you are already starting to collect dust in her mind. She’d rather continue to have you tethered to her so tightly that it feels as if you’re a phantom limb.
She’s haunted by a past that she can’t return to, and yet, she’s sick of finding herself in the same place over and over again.
But she will always be there at the hospital, and all she can do is stare blankly, wondering if she should’ve wanted less from life rather than more.
The latter feels as if she’s nearly dead inside, but still has a little bit of hope left for something extraordinary to happen.
She’s trying to remind herself that she hasn’t lost who she is, she’s just different now. And that’s okay.
She’s trying to heal rather than be emotionally crushed by the weight of what has happened.
She’s trying to live by the fact that life has been cruel, but she can still choose to be kind.
I’m trying to be better.
I’m trying to be better.
I’m trying to be better.
Today’s prompt comes from my own thoughts and feelings. Each of these letters to my dad are written candidly; unedited and unfiltered.